


Party Favors

by manicr



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Factor (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Kinda, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29405127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manicr/pseuds/manicr
Summary: A reunion at a party, they’ve both got their roles to play. A mystery. A murder.
Relationships: Daken Akihiro/Jeanne-Marie Beaubier, Daken Akihiro/Lester | Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter
Comments: 28
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by @atherpurest over at tumblr

Morning briefing at the Boneyard had been a tense affair. At least two mutant murders in New York and evidence pointed at another Xeno operation, if indirectly. Mobsters killing mutants, and being paid handsomely for it. It was hard to track any of it, and just finding some scant sources had taken Prodigy most of the morning, and the rest of the day to analyze. But a time and place where they could find out more had been established. A party where members of the Lucchese mob family, and their vassals, were in attendance, the family had suddenly risen in status, resources, and cash seemingly out of nowhere when you started to look at it beyond the shell-companies.

“So they are our prime suspects?” Eye-Boy asked hand raised. 

“The data indicates that they are involved,” Prodigy replied, tapping his screen, the light reflecting on his glasses. 

“We’re catching them like Al Capone! It’s always the taxes, right?”

“They did declare it as trade revenue.”

Eye-Boy deflated a bit but still seemed excited at the prospect of going after the mob, regardless. Daken followed the interaction with slight amusement, it was somewhat endearing. 

“The plan is simple. We go to the party, talk and investigate the guests, and see where that leads us. It’s pure reconnaissance,” Jean-Paul stated. “It should be fine is only a few of us--”

“No! It’s a party. We’re all going,” Lorna interrupted, and Rachel agreeing with her quickly. “We’ve been cooped up with nothing new to do for ages, so I’m going to dress up, go to a party, and catch myself a glass of _real_ champagne as well as a killer.” 

“I do have a dress I’ve been wanting to show off,” Rachel added. Both Eye-Boy and Prodigy looked up at them and seemed to be interested in the idea, Trevor more so.

“The ladies have spoken,” Daken added, deciding that it would do them some good to enjoy themselves. They had been working hard, and their work was full of death. A chance to unwind was what they all needed, even if it was on the clock. He hadn’t been to a real _event_ in ages, which was a shame. 

He turned toward Jeanne-Marie, giving her a smile. “May I ask for you to be my plus one this evening?”

She stilled and flushed slightly, and her brother gave her a glare, but before he could say anything, she replied: “You may. Wear _something_.” 

“Gladly.” Her jibe at his usual state of undress was welcome; it showed spirit. 

Jean-Paul sighed, seeing that he was out-numbered. “This is a **serious** investigation, please try to remember that. Mutant lives are at stake.” He gave them a serious look. “Xeno is dangerous, and we don’t know what _more_ than the money they have given these criminals.” All of their thoughts turned to the modified killers sent to Krakoa, the slaughter they had left behind. Even with the Five, their deaths had been very real. The threat Xeno posed even more so.

“Once we have the information we need, we’ll send it on. It could be that this will be handed off to X-Force at any moment. We’re not there to do more than ascertain the cause of death, and if we can, point out the perpetrators and shut down their operation. Stringer and Omerta deserve to have their deaths fully resolved.” They knew the resurrection protocols, and both of the murdered mutants were on the pipeline as their bodies had been retrieved. They had even been bumped up on the list as their baby was waiting for them.

“We should focus on Geordi Lucchese. The bodies exhibited excessive damage, indicative of either rage or sadism -- and given Geordi’s social media history there are clear enough indicators that he exhibits traits of both. He battered his ex-girlfriend, sending her to the hospital with severe contusions, a concussion, and a broken wrist,” Prodigy read off his tablet, “It’s likely he’d exhibit even more violence toward those he kills, especially mutants since he frequently uses derogatory speech on that topic in his tweets.” 

“A real scumbag, then,” Rachel noted dryly.

Daken didn’t doubt their findings, the mob in New York were scavengers and ready to do other people’s dirty work. They couldn’t compete with the meta-humans; be it mutants, Inhumans, or others. It was only natural that they would jump at the chance to take out some of the competition, especially if Xeno was arming them. It was business.

“When are we leaving?” he asked smoothly. 

***

Bullseye cursed his rotten luck, downing a flute of champagne. He’d already spent too much time at the party. Frankly, he knew **exactly** whose fault that was: Geordi Lucchese. Geordi was the new up and comer of the Lucchese mob family, making a name for himself with splashy offensive moves, big cash from sources undisclosed, and had big dreams about running the city. He was loud, brash, and well-connected. Bullseye kept his eye on him and his crew of bootlickers, fawners, captains, and his girlfriend. 

Lucchese’s presence had drawn out several unsavory and reclusive people to the party, however, which, nominally, was some kind of fundraiser. A classic suit and tie event, and while Bullseye was no stranger to dressing up, he felt ill at ease in the simple black suit he’d gone for. He looked more like the not-so-covert security, and the waiters. He _should_ have done _that_ instead. But done was done, he was there as a guest -- just like his target, who had again sidled away from his view. The problem Lucchese was creating was too many trigger happy fingers. He’d nearly had his cover blown twice already, on account of not keeping his killing intent in check, and the mission was supposed to be covert. Speaking of that, the dark wig, and prosthetic on his face itched. More foul necessities that grated on his patience.

Bullseye was definitely starting to regret taking this job. 

As such, he didn’t so much mingle in the crowd as move at its outskirts, never garnering too much attention and minding his angles. _Security_ wasn’t that tight inside the party, but enough to keep him on his toes, but he could count at least a dozen of the guests being armed. That wasn’t the only thing they were carrying either, if he were a thief, he could have gotten rich on just all the jewelry. And _that_ was discounting the clothes themselves; one-of-kind designer pieces and enough Swarovski crystals to function as a disco ball. He stuck out in his plainness, even if it wasn’t unflattering. A crow among peacocks.

With his contracts with the Kingpin frozen, the _Mayor of New York_ wouldn’t be seen with **him** after all, he was forced to take on things beneath his stature to keep a steady supply of both income and action. He _liked_ the glitz, but the manners just stuck in his throat. Better just to get the job done quickly, but that _would have been_ nearly an hour ago. The _target_ hadn’t been very cooperative, sticking to the rowdy crew like glue. He _needed_ to isolate, this was meant to be a death with minimal fuss and maximum deniability -- _self-inflicted_ if possible, the client had requested. Make them choke on an appetizer, but that would have made too big a scene and risk resuscitation. Maybe overdose on some party drugs. But direct action was a clear no-go with so many mobsters around in the party, not that some of the other guests couldn’t pose a problem. The cameras were one of the more annoying issues, when everything was being filmed, discretion became a little harder. Geordi was making a point of catching the attention of every single one he could. It was an unintentional security blanket of flashing lights.

“--and then I told that mutie that he could just get out of town or die mad about it--” Loud laughter and more alcohol. Their drinking would probably create the window he needed. Sooner or later, bathroom visits and poor decision making would thin the herd and let him take out his prey. Patience was all he needed.

Movement at the entrance drew his attention, for a moment he ignored it until a freakish kid drew his attention. The kid was covered in eyes. Like **_all over_** his visible body. The kid wasn’t alone either, others, _undoubtedly_ mutants despite their less obvious appearances, joined him. 

Fuck fuck shit _fuck_. Shit just _had_ to hit the fan. 

Bullseye knew his geopolitics, you had to in his business; mutants were these days a diplomatic issue, nevermind that it was a party of rich asswipes. Rich asswipes meant businessmen, politicians, lobbyists, influencers and celebrities, and more than a few doubling as more discreet criminals among the mob family that was turning heads, and for a fledgling nation, those were important allies. And while Bullseye was certain Krakoa would go the way of its predecessors -- Utopia, Providence, and, most telling of all, Genosha -- they were a huge wrench in any situation they turned up in. But the problem **at hand,** was that a murder near mutants tended to normally get messy real quick, and now it also got _political_ with extreme prejudice -- psychics ripping your head apart to get to the ‘truth’ to safeguard their make-believe nation. He needed eyes on them, and he needed the job done _yesterday_. 

Bullseye stilled himself, not letting his breathing or heart get a single step out of hand, showing off nerves would just get him killed. _Step one, know your enemy._ He circled the newcomers and tried to ID the ones he knew. His first relief was that none of the _major players_ were there; no Xavier, Magneto, Cyclops, Frost, or the cavalcade of red-headed psychics. Small mercies. The mule-kick came when he saw a familiar face. The boy with all the eyes had distracted him, but he’d recognize that mug anywhere.

Daken hadn’t aged a day.

Oh, he _changed_ alright, bulked up enough to rival his father, changed his hair into a more traditional topknot rather than the mohawk, with a deliberate stubble, and even his suit had a style that hit differently, but that was **all** looks. Daken excelled in looking the part of whatever he wanted to play. By the way he looked, he was playing _with_ the black-haired beauty on his arm. 

She was in a black and white dress, slit to the thigh, her hair piled up on her head, and high heels sharp enough to kill. Neither hid the fact that her ears were pointed nor the fact that, more than once, those heels **didn’t** touch the ground. A flyer, probably something else up her sleeve too. Another man, as dark and slit-eared as her, spoke quickly and quietly with her with an irritated look, and Bullseye vaguely thought he’d seen him on TV at some point. Sports, of all things, came to mind. 

With them was the boy with the eyes all over him, a black man, who seemed to be the date of Mr. Pointy Ears, and a green-haired woman in a revealing and flowy shimmery dress, her face seemed vaguely familiar as well. Bullseye wasn’t one to keep up with **all** the mutants though. Another woman, in a somewhat severe if daring red dress and a young man walked in moments later, joining the group, and he clocked _her_ as an immediate problem. He didn’t know what _they_ called her, but Bullseye would bet a million bucks she belonged to the aforementioned red-headed band of psychics the mutants had.

This job was officially starting to go sour.

“--I want eyes on everything. Fan out--” He overheard Mr. Pointy Ears command, the boy with the eyes nodded enthusiastically, his gross eyes shifting independently on his body, observing everything.

Bullseye tensed and tried to sink back, away from the mutants, away from Daken, as well as his nasty habit of meddling with things. For reasons he couldn’t discern, Daken hadn’t seemed to have noticed him, despite their proximity. It had to be a ruse, Bullseye was too well-acquainted with Daken’s skills to think otherwise. But he couldn’t keep his eyes away from them, he told himself that it was out of necessity, but _necessity_ didn’t _make_ him watch the curve of Daken’s profile with such intensity.

The mutants started to mingle with the crowd, but there was a purpose to it. They were here for something _specific_ , which didn’t seem to be **him** , and the boy with the eyes kept looking in places where he had little business to be. Not very discreet. The redhead was seemingly doing nothing, but he didn’t trust _that_ for a moment.

_How do you covertly kill someone when there seemed to be a search going on?_

Bullseye was magic, _of course,_ but the trick was to know what game you were playing. He needed to find that out now and the best way was to get it out of the horse's mouth. Bullseye deliberately moved into Daken’s line of sight, but far enough to make him come _to_ him. He affected a casual air, but his eyes were firmly set on his former teammate. He caught the _moment_ Daken set eyes on him, and it was satisfying to see his face and body tense up, ready for violence. Bullseye gave a little grin and wave, mocking as always: ready to play. It felt like the good old times.

“Lester?” Daken asked, finally moving in close, a flute of champagne in his hand. He was now showing soft surprise. It was there in the slight parting of his lips, the widening of his eyes, and the tone of his voice. _That wasn’t right_. 

“Took you,” he countered, without so much as a greeting. He couldn’t let his guard down, couldn’t misstep in _this_ tango. He kept everything _even_ and under his control, just like when taking a shot. Interrogating Daken without giving away too much was a delicate affair, one he didn’t expect to come unscathed from.

After a moment's silence, Daken _sniffed_ him. “You... _smell_ different.” 

“New aftershave.” Of course, his heightened senses, a thing Bullseye had **not** missed. Obviously, it had been his scent that caught Daken’s attention first, even with the disguise he was wearing. Dark hair, barely styled, darkened brows, a prosthetic in front of his scar, make-up for the rest together with his suit. But, _sure_ , focus on his new meds.

“More like a cocktail. Didn’t take you like one for _self-care_ .” Daken gave him a visual once over. “You look **good**. Healthy. But I think I like you better blond.” The bastard had the **gall** to sound surprised again. He was acting very different from what Bullseye remembered, it wasn’t the same cocky flirty act, he was blunter and less… self-assured.

“ _Why_ are you here?” Bullseye demanded, straight to the point, deciding to match Daken’s bluntness, as well as steering the conversation to something he actually wanted to talk about. His health wasn’t something he’d talk about even with his doctors.

“I think I could ask you the same.” A cocked brow and that quizzical look, as if Daken was looking right through him. Daken raised a hand toward him, making him instinctively flinch back. Touch from Daken was _distracting_ , and, worse yet, a strong conduit for Daken’s freaky powers. 

“I’m _here_ for the same reason I’m _anywhere_ .” A kill, both of them **knew** that, no point in hiding it. Bullseye wasn’t known for being a _socialite_ after all. Though he did know how to have fun.

“ _Business_ then. I could say much the same. How have you been?” Daken lowered his hand and gave him a look, making a face that Bullseye didn’t understand. A soft smile, and something like disappointment. He didn’t get this _whole_ thing Daken was pulling. Where was the bite? Where was the fire? Daken was _feigning_ concern of all things.

“Small talk _doesn’t_ suit you. Not even with the new look,” he spat back, trying to find his footing, feeling more out of place than he already had. Daken on the other had fitted in like he’d been born there, _as always_ ; easy smiles and his stupid tailored suit, that looked like it came from a slightly classier K-pop music video. But that hard edge was still there. 

“Need to move with the times--” Mid-sentence, Daken paused and half-turned, raised his hand signaling silence. The woman from before was heading their way, with that ‘my feet don’t touch the ground’ walk of hers. Bullseye wanted to find a weapon, everything about this seemed to cry out for violence if only to break the uncomfortable tension.

“Akihiro.” She said his _name_. **No one** used his name. ”Something the matter?” 

Her voice carried an accent, and it took Bullseye a moment to place the Quebecois. She looked at him, that kind of down-your-nose way that some women **excelled** in, which he loathed with a passion. But she quite _rightly_ tensed up at the sight of him, despite the lack of recognition in her gaze; that tell-tale flicker to his scar was absent and the usual terror. She could sense that he wasn’t _just anyone_.

“Just an old friend,” Daken deflected, soft-spoken, and Bullseye wanted to spit at him. Friend? They had never been _friends_. They had been team-mates, enemies, rivals, fuck buddies, but _never_ friends. Was he trying to cover who he _was_ or that they’d _fucked_? Bullseye reigned in his temper, reminding himself what **they** were: mutants; and why **he** was here: his job. 

“Good evening, I am Aurora,” she introduced herself, keeping a regal tone but there was something sharp in it. She was using her mutie name, but it rang no bells for him. Bullseye eyed Daken -- fucking _Akihiro_ indeed -- and dared him to say something. He wanted to threaten her, to hurt her, hurt _him_ too, but he was walking a tightrope. 

“Ah, this is Lester. A happy little surprise, we haven’t reconnected in years,” Daken introduced him, still trying to hide who he was, but, as usual, without blatantly lying. Why, was the question, however. Bullseye glared at him now, not bothering to hide that he didn’t appreciate any of this.

“Enchanté,” Bullseye finally answered, addressing her in French and giving her a little twitch of his neck to indicate a bow. His eyes on her were cold and everything about him said that he was everything _but_ happy to see her. Daken’s eyes flickered to him and he could see how the mutant was calculating things.

“I apologize, I’ll need to have a word with him in private. I’ll be back with you shortly,” Daken said with an apologetic smile, briefly touching her on her hand, obviously a romantic gesture. Daken grabbed Bullseye by the shoulder, towing him away from Aurora, who was left staring at them, clutching her little bag tightly. Bullseye suppressed the urge to stick out his tongue at her.

“What the fuck do you--”

“Who are you here to kill? Who are you working for?” Daken fired back firmly without raising his voice, shutting him up.

“That’s **none** of your business, _Akihiro_ ,” he snapped, paying him back for the ‘Lester’ remark. “I’m a _fucking_ professional.”

“It **is** my business, Lester. I’m here **looking** for a **killer**.” 

That was an informative surprise. “Well, looks like ya found one--”

“Answer my question,” Daken demanded, grabbing him hard by the arm, “or I’ll have to get Rachel over and pry it out of your head.” Something about his tone said that he didn’t _want_ to do that, but _would_. Rachel was obviously the redhead.

“You’ll just have to wait and see--” 

“You don’t **get** it. This is _important_ and _official_. This **isn’t** you getting sent to Rykers or a cushy hospital, this is you getting your brain wrung out until all of Krakoa knows everything you might know.” Daken spoke with urgency and then his grip softened for some reason, Bullseye ripped his arm free and stared him down.

“It's _sweet_ how much you _care_ ," he spat, dripping venom. "Ain’t doing anything that has to do with ya muties, alright? Ain’t stupid,” he defended himself moments later, he was telling the truth as far as he knew. 

“That means nothing, Lester,” Daken said, still in that soft-spoken tone and seemed like he regretted whatever he was planning to do. It was weird. Daken never regretted anything, and that soft tone was starting to grate on him. “I know you’ve done hits for the mob before. That you don’t ask much about your employers or _why_ they want anyone dead. You could be killing mutants and _never know it._ Make the smart choice, Lester. I’ll even pay your fee. Double it.”

"I don't need _your_ **damn** _money_." Bullseye looked at him, trying to understand what this really was about. It was obvious that Daken and his merry band were hunting a murderer, they didn’t seem to know who it was but that somehow the mob was suspect, and that Krakoa had decided to strike down hard on it. But what he didn’t get was Daken’s reactions. He eyed the crowd over Daken’s shoulder, looking for his target and the rest of the mutants. The Pointy Eared ones were talking again, the rest spread out, but he **couldn’t** find his target. Geordi was right there with his possé, loud as usual. 

“Shit,” he muttered, turned to look around. He was missing his window. “ _Fuck_! Where is _she_?”

Daken grabbed him by the shoulder again, pulling him closer. “Who?”

“Fuck you--” he hissed back. Daken had no right to ask _anything_ of him. 

Then a shot went off and the guns were out.

  
  


***


	2. Chapter 2

If there was a time and place that Bullseye came alive, then it was in a fight. He didn’t know or care who pulled the first shot after his target Nicole Gorga pulled the trigger, seemingly out of nowhere. But Bullseye took it as an invitation to start killing, Nicole after all was owed a bullet in her pretty face. She could have had a _nicer and neater_ death, but she’d made her bed. He pushed past Daken and used the stolen keys in his pocket to kill two of Geordi’s bodyguards. He ducked and slid to avoid Daken grasping for him and pushed forward in the panicked crowd. A spark of a plan formed and he shoved the boy with the eyes into the fray, making another of Geordi’s posse come to the exact wrong conclusion. 

“The muties are attacking!”

Bullseye spotted Nicole in her glittering dress, ugly crying, her mascara running down her cheeks, shakingly holding a gun. She’d shot Geordi Lucchese, her boyfriend, for reasons Bullseye couldn’t care less about. The only thing that was surprising was that she was still standing. But he supposed that it was her being his girlfriend that had caused the hesitation. He’d lost his window of discretion, but not the kill. Bullseye continued to move, running and trying **not** to draw the attention of either the mutants, who were playing it defensively, and the trigger-happy mobsters. But he did go for the kills that presented themselves. **Not** the **mutants**. He wasn’t suicidal. He even saved the black boy from a bullet by killing his assailant. It was now a bona fide firefight now, mobsters vs. mutants, and little Nicole seemed forgotten by both. _Perfect_. Soon enough, someone would take out the big guns and he needed to get this done before that happened. 

He jumped and flipped over tables and mobsters, arming himself as he did, grabbing Nicole by her hair and pulling her with him. She screamed, more in fear than in pain, a piercing sound that was heard over the bullets, and tried to point the gun at him. Bullseye easily took it from her and pushed her toward the kitchen entrance. “Run, little girl. At least _try_.”

Stunned, she stumbled then started to scramble through the kitchen. Bullseye waited for a few beats and shot her with one of the mobster’s guns in the back. Three shots deliberately uncentered, only enough to wound rather than instantly kill, as if by a poor shot after a moving target. The little discretion he could still provide; it wouldn’t look like a pro hit job, but rather retribution for Geordi’s murder. Nicole hit the floor, dragging with her kitchenware and a kitchen knife, her high heels useless for footing and her long shimmering dress a nightmare to move in. But she tried, even as he saw blood bloom, Nicole **tried** to **live**. It was nearly cute.

He laughed lightly, sauntering and crouching by her side as blood pooled around her. Amused, he eyed her attempts to grab the knife, he let her get her bloodied manicured hands on it before he stepped on her hand, reveling in crushing her fingers as well as her hopes. She cried out and sobbed, pulling at her hand and coughing up blood. 

“Hiya, _Nicole_. This was **supposed** to be discrete and tidy, but you just had to go and grew a pair. Sorry about that. Heh. Well, not really. I like this better.” He chuckled and watched her slowly choke. He’d pierced her lung. Soon enough she’d drown in her own blood. She looked up at her with watery eyes, they were a clear brown and her make-up was an utter mess now, making her look a little like a panda. 

“Lemme introduce myself, the name’s **Bullseye** ,” He said, peeled off the wig and prosthetic, enjoying the recognition of his name; the fear and the awe he saw delighted him.

“Your death was **supposed** to be a message to Geordi, ya know, but a contract’s a contract. I’m a pro after all.” He’d gotten an advance on it, so it’d be bad taste to forgo the contract just because the situation changed. “It’s your **own fault** really, you shouldn’t have messed with his business or tried to change his mind. No one likes a _meddling_ dame.”

He heard something loud from the main hall, the mobsters had probably pulled forth whatever arsenal they had or the muties had decided to give a shit about that alleged vow to ‘kill no human’. “Sounds like I’m running outta time, _Nicole--_ ”

“ **That** you are--” he barely shifted his weight to turn before something slammed into him and sent him flying across counters and hitting a shelf of pots and pans. Bullseye pulled up a large frying pan just in time to intercept another blow, seeing the metal buckle inward at the blow. He looked up to catch a sight of Aurora, floating in the air above him, fury etched on her painted face, a few locks falling down from her updo. She was faintly glowing, and Bullseye could tell that that ace up her sleeve was probably going to blast him to hell in a moment. He swiped at her with a pot, but only managed to get her to lose a shoe.

“ _Murderer_ ,” she hissed at him and grabbed him, pressing him against the wall, a good foot or two off the floor. Bullseye grinned at her, grabbing at her hands to take the weight off his neck. She had delicate wrists, but they felt like cords of steel.

“ _Always_. But I _still_ didn’t kill **a mutant**. **Not**. **Your**. **Jurisdiction**.” He coughed out, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“ _Aurora_!”

***

Daken should have known that **anywhere** Bullseye was there would be chaos soon enough. Lester had never been good at restraint, something he’d exploited before to its fullest extent. Now, he’d failed to reign that in and things had turned out exactly how they always did with him; a massacre. 

Daken threw himself into the fight, working to get bystanders out of the way and disarming the mobsters who were shooting wildly by now. _No kills_ , he told himself, even as he could see Lester dropping bodies. That familiar tug made him feel the rhythm, the sweet _dance_ that Bullseye invited him into, and the beauty of **it** and the **killer** himself. Lester was always so elegant and radiant when he fought, when he _killed_ , and it pulled at him to join the fray in earnest. 

_Hold back_. 

With a snarl, Daken brutally cut the tendons of a mobster’s knee. The man curled up on the floor with a scream. He would be unable to walk, probably for the rest of his life. 

He needed to catch up with Lester. He saw him, doing his usual acrobatic jumps and flips --- _show off!_ \--- and pursued, taking several bullets that tore at him, but it didn’t stop Daken. Lester grabbed the girl, the one who had started all of it. Daken didn’t know how she was tied up with all of this, but he would never know if he didn’t catch her while she was still alive. Bullseye didn’t leave survivors for long, but he did play with them. Daken counted on Lester’s sadism to keep the girl alive a _little_ longer. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, a blast went off and threw him back into a serving table, canapes and champagne everywhere, disorienting him. He couldn’t let Bullseye get away, not **with** the girl. _Damn_ him.

“Go after _the girl_!” Daken shouted at Northstar, knowing the speedster was fast enough to intervene, and controlled enough to leave Lester alive. 

“I’m going!” Aurora replied and shot away, leaving her brother to deal with the new threat of the blast weapon.

Daken rose, and hurried toward the kitchen, hearing the fight and fearing the worst. The rest of the team could deal with the mobsters only he could deal with _Bullseye_. “ _Aurora_!” 

She was in the air, holding Lester up by the throat and her rage was like a fire to his senses. The girl on the floor _still_ lived. Daken hadn’t seen Aurora’s rage before, not like he had Lester’s, but he didn’t have the time to reflect on it, to taste it, and to shape it. He needed to use his _words_. He needed to reach her before she did something _he’d_ regret.

“The girl-- she needs help.” He tried to be calm, to defuse all of this before… He didn’t want **her** to focus on **him**. She could get the girl help, and **he’d** take care of Lester.

“ **He** did that...” Jeanne-Marie faltered, her rage was still there, the urge to kill, but she was _kinder_ than that. Saving people still **mattered** more to her than hurting them did -- at least that was what Daken hoped. A nagging doubt wanted to rear its head, he’d heard the rumors that some of her personalities didn’t have those qualms, however, he decided to have faith in her.

“I’ll deal with him,” he reassured her. Soft, earnest, and no aggression; pheromones in control. He could see Lester stare at him, those bright blue eyes calculating, and focused on him, not her. That was good too. He didn’t want _Lester_ to fight this either. 

Jeanne-Marie turned her head to look at him, blue eyes fast on him now, and he could smell her calming down, but also that spark of suspicion in her eyes. He deserved that, from both of them. She gently lowered herself down until Lester stood on the ground again. She was missing a shoe and removed the other to gently kneel by the girl. Daken moved to grab Lester by the shoulder, holding back the urge to just _yell_ at him. Not here, Daken reminded himself, torn between the woman saving a life by his feet, and the man hellbent on taking them in his hand.

“You _damned idiot_ ,” he still growled at Lester, “you could have just **walked away**.”

“Like **you** did?” Lester asked sharply, grinning that shit-eating grin of his, cruelty clear in his eyes and scent. Daken **had** left without goodbyes, without a word, even after Lester begged for them to **go together**. Figures that Lester **wouldn't** have forgotten **that**. 

“Tabarnak! She’s dying, there’s nothing I can do… I **need** to get her to a hospital.” Jeanne-Marie stated, looking up, her hands bloodied now. 

“She’s dead in **minutes** \-- if you move her **seconds** ,” Lester added cruelly. “I know what I’m doing, and **I** get the job done.”

“Why **her** , you animal?”

“Cuz I was paid to. Cuz it's **_fun_**.” Lester stared at Daken as he spoke, that cruel grin still on his face. Daken gritted his teeth. He felt nothing for the girl on the floor, even if he could hear her choking, hear her labored breath, and the beat of her terrified but weakening heart. She was… no one. But Jeanne-Marie cared; she was **angry**. 

“Rachel!” Daken shouted, trying to send the thought out as well.

_‘Yes. No need to shout. Oh… Oh… this is_ **_bad_** _.’_ Her thoughts touched his only gently, he knew his mind was a place she couldn’t venture lightly into. 

_‘Read the girl. Bullseye had a hit on her. Read him too if you can. But it won’t be nice.’_ He felt regret well up in him and steeled himself. Why was a killer like _Bullseye_ worth more to him than the dying girl who Jeanne-Marie cared for, raged for?

In the real world, Daken looked up at Lester and wondered briefly if he’d be happier if they had just fought. “I’m sorry. I **warned** you,” he stated, trying to apologize for more than just what just happened. 

“The fuck--?” The assassin grumbled and then froze. Most people didn’t notice psychic probing, they didn’t have any capacity to resist it either. But from his scent, Daken was **certain** that Lester had noticed. Lester starting to struggle and shout profanities at him doubled up that assertion. It was a full-time job keeping the assassin put, and when Daken got stabbed in his kidney with the heel of Jeanne-Marie’s discarded stiletto shoe, he was **done** doing this the hard way. Daken grabbed Lester hard by the back of the head and kissed him, pushing his pheromones hard. It might have been several years, and Lester was in a different state of mind and health, but he **knew** this man from inside to outside. What mostly was a nudge and a prod, he’d turned into an _art form_ with Lester; his instability and usually altered state of mind made it _easier_ and slightly stronger. 

These days, he could see the harm of it, the cruelty, and **the cost** of it. But he couldn’t let more people die. Better to let Lester ride out his horror and pain with some pheromones, _at least_ take the edge off. Daken couldn’t quite convince himself that he was doing Lester a favor. Lester’s tears further disabused him of that notion. He could feel them wet against his cheeks, and the look in Lester’s too bright eyes. Daken let him go, only holding him by the front of his costume, and knew that he’d pay for this with more than a stiletto heel in his flesh. 

Before Daken even turned, he could both hear and smell the rest of his team. He could feel their stares, the judgment, and the pain from the massacre that had occurred tonight. Even if they were just humans. None of that had mattered to Lester -- to Bullseye -- either. Did they matter to him?

“What did you get?” he asked instead, eyes still set on Lester, avoiding turning around. He couldn’t face Jeanne-Marie right now. 

“Her name was Nicole Gorga.” Rachel began, and the turn of phrase made him realize that the girl -- _Nicole!_ \-- had died. “She was Lucchese’s girlfriend. She’d tried to convince him to stop acting against mutants. She saw him kill Stinger. She… couldn’t take it anymore and killed Lucchese. He wasn’t that nice to her either. Same as the last girlfriend.” So, he’d abused her too.

“And him?” Daken still held onto Lester, who was glaring balefully at him, but he was calm now. Chin up, face bare of his disguise and defiant as always, but Daken could taste the brittleness in him still. 

“He was hired to kill her, just like he said, to send a message to Lucchese to stay on track. He doesn’t know any names, but he’s… observant. The people he met fit the profile of Xeno. He hasn’t worked for them before. He hasn’t killed a mutant in any near memory. Other than… well, **you**.” Rachel just couldn’t help pulling that up, could she? Though it had probably been at the forefront of Lester’s mind.

“I bashed that metal-plated skull of his plenty of times too. Don’t make it sound like **he** had the upper hand.” Daken tried for levity. “It was a game we played, back in the day.” 

“Yeah, good ol’ days when you killed anyone who looked at you funny, eh, Daken? You’re the attack dog for the mutants now? Heh-he. **Always** someone holding the **chain** , **isn’t there**? At least the last one let ya _run_ .” Lester went in for the kill with his words, paying him back for his own dirty trick. He continued with a sneer: “It’s a **pity** seeing you with a muzzle. Guess it’s for little miss _Au-ro-ra,_ you always did have a **thing** for blue eyes and a **bucket of crazy**.” Lester was no stranger to insulting himself to make a point.

“Shut up, Lester. How many died?” Daken asked, trying to ignore Lester’s words, as well as the feelings he could scent off his team. 

“13 people. Seven by Bullseye, the rest by stray gunfire. 20 more injured in the gunfight.” Prodigy filled them in, standing by the doorway. “Ambulances are on the way. Northstar moved the people he could to the closest emergency room. Polaris is guarding the mobsters.”

“ _Just seven_? Sheesh, I thought I did in _more_. But to be fair, I **was** in a hurry. And **not** a _single mutant dead_. Leave me to the cops if ya want, but I’m out of your jurisdiction.” Bullseye was being smug.

“You’re a collaborator. You worked with Xeno, that’s enough,” Northstar decreed, having speeded back from ferrying the injured, settling by his sister’s side. Both of them with blood on their hands, blood Bullseye had spilled.

“I don’t know jack about that. Your mind reader **just** confirmed that in case you missed it. I’m just the **hired gun** , and as I’ve said _repeatedly_ by now, I don’t take hits on your kind, and I have no intention of doing so. I won’t work for Xeno again, if that’s who they are, because I hate this kind of bullshit,” Bullseye drawled in a bored voice as if he wasn’t facing a team of mutants who could easily decide to have him executed. 

“ _My kind_ \--?”

“Don’t. He’s being an asshole on purpose, but he’s right. And he’s not lying. Veracity report?” Daken interjected to calm the situation, tugging at Lester to shut him up.

“He’s not lying, but his signals are _off_. I think he’s medicated. Like a **lot**. I don’t recognize half of what I can see.” Eye-boy confirmed, nervous and ill at ease in general. 

“Truthful and **spiteful**. He’ll kill again before the week’s over but he won’t take a hit on a mutant or work for Xeno. He’s **insane** , so I don’t know how much that’ll help,” Rachel remarked tersely. 

“However, he wants to kill us. But he won’t. I think he wants to kill **everybody**. Especially you, Daken.” Prodigy summarized.

“I **know** he does, and I might even **deserve** it,” Daken said, looking at his team briefly before settling back on Lester. “But that doesn’t mean that we have any right to do anything other than leave him to the authorities.”

“ _Might_? Shithead. You **always** went about earning every piece of hurt I could put on you. But this is _business_ , Junior.” Lester shrugged and cocked his head as if this was all a joke to him. It probably was. 

“ **Why** are you defending **him**?” Jeanne-Marie asked, her question cutting into Daken. He turned to look at her, it hurt to see her hurting, and worse yet how accusatory the simple question was.

“I--” He caught himself in the impulse to lie to her, realizing just in time just who was there and how stupid that would be. 

“Cat got yer tongue, fuckface?” Lester purred out, enjoying the show. And Daken wanted to bite back at him as well, to lie, to deflect, and to pretend. Daken hadn’t run into the kitchen to save **Nicole** , but to save **Lester**.

“Because I used to love him.”

***


End file.
